


Firebringer

by Kendrene



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst and Smut, F/F, Oral Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-02
Updated: 2018-09-02
Packaged: 2019-07-05 21:08:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,233
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15871779
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kendrene/pseuds/Kendrene
Summary: Missandei doesn’t need a torch to traverse the army’s camp, as Yunkai is still effectively burning even though almost an entire day has passed since the battle.The desert wind blows the noxious fumes away, but the ashes rising from smouldering ruins turn the sky pitch black, the moon only weakly peeking through when the breeze happens to turn.Thankfully the night is quiet, the pained groans of the wounded silenced as their injuries are tended to, and the horrid screams of the Wise Masters have mercifully ceased.ORAfter the fall of Yunkai, the flame that sparked between Missandei and Daenerys in Astapor is rekindled.





	Firebringer

**Author's Note:**

> While this story contains references to the events of "Chainbreaker" you can read the two as separate works. I hope you enjoy.

Missandei doesn’t need a torch to traverse the army’s camp, as Yunkai is still effectively burning even though almost an entire day has passed  since the battle. 

The desert wind blows the noxious fumes away, but the ashes rising from smouldering ruins turn the sky pitch black, the moon only weakly peeking through when the breeze happens to turn. 

Thankfully the night is quiet, the pained groans of the wounded silenced as their injuries are tended to, and the horrid screams of the Wise Masters have mercifully ceased.

But how they shrieked as they went up in flames, their voices acquiring an eerie quality as they echoed through the desert.

Burned alive inside the palace they had chosen as refuge, hoping to withstand Daenerys’ fury. 

Forgetting - foolish to the last man - that dragons care little for a city’s walls no matter how thick and well constructed.

For dragons can fly. 

They had lined the walls with a city’s worth of slaves - women and children the most prominent. The Masters had forced them to stand guard under the desert’s sun in lieu of warriors, without water or food, and some of them had baked in the heat, throwing themselves off the rampants in search of a more lenient death than that which they were being given. 

Surely the savage woman that the freed slaves already called Mother wouldn’t attack and risk a slaughtering of innocents.

_ Surely _ . 

And in fact if someone had been standing on Yunkai’s walls when her numberless army had blackened the horizon - Dothraki and mercenaries, plus all the freed slaves that had chosen to fight for her - it would have looked that the Wise Masters’ plan was working. 

Daenerys had waited. Watched with downturned mouth as more and more slaves plummeted by choice or exhaustion from the walls. But, while she appeared idle, a trusted few of her people had infiltrated the city from the sea, stealing Yunkish garments to blend in and find out where the Wise Masters where hiding. 

Then at dusk, as the sun descended blood red, blinding the city’s inhabitants, Daenerys’ dragons had taken flight, using light as cover to deliver the Queen’s justice.

It is poetic in a way, Missandei thinks, that creatures of pure fire would strike like that, crowned in sunlight. Her people venerate the sun as a bringer of life, and in the death of the Wise Masters new life begins for the liberated slaves that belonged to Yunkai. 

And yet she knows that each death Daenerys witnessed weighs on her shoulders heavily, for her khaleesi’s nature is that of a ruler that cares about all of her subjects, including those that aren’t hers as of yet. 

There was no other way to take the city - a frontal assault meaning way too many losses - but Missandei knows Daenerys blames herself anyway. 

Chances are her Queen is restless and awake, and Missandei can picture her pacing her tent, food spoiling untouched in the arid heat. On her way to her quarters Missandei gets a hold of Daenerys’ handmaidens - a number of them always awake overnight in case the khaleesi wants for something - and asks them to deliver fresh food, and water for a bath. 

They do not question, knowing who she is and thinking she is acting on her own orders, and when she steps up to the tent’s entrance, the Unsullied standing guard spare her only a glance, nodding solemnly in greeting. She instructs them to alert her when the handmaidens come with the things she sent for, before turning her attention to the Queen’s tent.

As she’d thought, Daenerys is still awake, light filtering through gaps in the tent’s cloth. Missandei hesitates, a surge of fright squeezing her heart in a painful vise as she remembers the way the khaleesi stumbled back from battle. 

Smudged with smoke, the white dress she had been wearing morphed to grey, hair bone-white with ash and limp-looking instead of silver. And her eyes had held a kind of hardness that bordered on brittle, as if she’d seen things on Yunkai’s streets that could keep a man awake and dreading sleep for centuries.

Missandei is sure her Queen is still wearing the same sullied clothes, and that the pores of her skin are saturated with the ash that comes when one chars human flesh. 

Daenerys wears Yunkai’s demise like a penance for a reason Missandei cannot begin to understand. 

She takes one steadying breath and pushes the tent’s flaps aside, her Queen halting mid stride and turning towards her at the sound of her footsteps. 

For a moment Missandei thinks she’s facing a spirit, rather than a woman of flesh and blood like she is. 

“Khaleesi.” She drops a deep curtsy, hoping a dip of her head will mask the wrenching pain she feels at such a sight. 

“Has something happened?” The musical lilt of Daenerys’ voice is muted, akin to the half-heard ringing of bells swathed in cloth. 

“No, khaleesi. Just…” 

_ I wanted to check on you. _

That is what Missandei truly wants to say, but lets the words die inside as summer flowers are wont to do at the turn of the season. 

“I came to serve.” She gestures to Daenerys’ clothes, trying to not appear too direct. Yet, the message is clear enough and her Queen graces her with a tremulous smile. 

“Thank you, Missandei.” Two simple words, and her name layered with warmth are all it takes for Missandei to feel like the woman facing her just bestowed a kingdom upon her. 

Before she can add something, a discreet scratch comes from the tent’s entrance, the guards alerting her that the handmaidens have brought what she requested. 

She curtsies again before stepping outside to gather the buckets of water the handmaidens have left, plus a tray with freshly cut fruit, cheese and a pitcher of watered wine. 

It takes her three trips, but Missandei gently deflects the Unsullied’s offers of help, recognizing that Daenerys wouldn’t want to be seen in her current state. Not that the guards would ever talk, but they would  _ know  _ and that is enough to place even more strain on the khaleesi.

Once everything is back inside the tent, she refocuses her attention on her Queen. Daenerys is exactly how she’s left her, standing still in the middle of the enclosed space. Her eyes have followed Missandei’s back and forths but she hasn’t voiced any objection to Missandei’s obvious plan. 

She is reassured by the lack of protests, and her movements become quicker and more assured. First she fills the copper tub that takes up one corner of the tent with the water, placing coals that glow cherry red in an empty recess built underneath the tub for heating purposes. 

Missandei adds more than a fair amount of coals, carefully picking them off a burning brazier with a set of thongs. It is extraordinary how cold the desert can get at night, the chill so strong sometimes that she finds a thin crust of ice in her water basin when she wakes. 

And she’s learned from experience that Daenerys likes her baths scalding hot, the rumors that tell of how her blood is the same of her dragons’ gaining consistency whenever Missandei watches her dip within the melting embrace of the liquid without the smallest sign of discomfort. 

The tub filled, Missandei goes to help her khaleesi out of her clothes, only to find the Queen already naked, skin creased with gooseflesh and nipples hardened by the cold air. 

They stare at each other for a moment, blood rushing through Missandei’s ears so thunderously fast that the sounds of the night around them are drowned underneath it. She has not been in Daenerys’ presence in such an intimate way since their stolen night in Astapor - things between them returned to the normal interactions of ruler and advisor, save perhaps for glances that linger just a fraction too long than what is proper. 

It doesn’t escape her that their roles are now reversed - where in Astapor it had been Missandei to strip herself bare, now it is Daenerys’ turn. And the delicate violet-blue of her eyes is that of a pleading lover, silently begging to be tethered while life rages around her and threatens to sweep her along its unforgiving currents. 

Missandei simply extends a hand, and her khaleesi - no,  _ her _ Daenerys - takes it without speaking, accepting her help to climb inside the tub with a demure nod.

As Daenerys slowly lowers herself within the liquid embrace, the water grows murky. Ash runs off her in pasty rivulets, and Missandei dons a glove woven from horsehair to scrub her skin clean. She refuses to linger on the fact that ash has a greasy quality to it, as if it was mingled with fat, but the reedy shrieks of the Wise Masters echo within her skulls nonetheless. 

They deserved immolation and more, but Missandei fails to stifle a measure of pity. 

She changes the water twice, the liquid clearing up with each wash, and when there is no more ash dissolving in the water, she discards the sodden glove and unstoppers one of the vials sitting on a nearby table, adding lavender essence into the water. 

Daenerys reclines back with a sigh, forearms resting on the side of the copper tub, eyes meeting hers before they flutter close. 

Missandei works in silence, fingers deftly unknotting her lover’s hair, her nails scratching Daenerys’ scalp lightly. Despite the apparent laxitude, a small frown creases the khaleesi’s brow, and her eyes dart wildly behind closed eyelids. 

The Queen is reliving the day, unable to escape the horrors of the battle even in this state of light sleep - Missandei is sure of that - and despite wanting to wake her up and pull her to her chest holding her tight, she is scared of yet again crossing the line they set for themselves as boundary.

Not because Missandei doesn’t want to, but because she knows it will be harder and harder to cross back the more she moves between the states of lover and advisor. 

Taking the choice away from her, Daenerys wakes with a muted sob, tears streaming down her cheeks. And at that sight Missandei ceases to care about the confines of propriety, sinking her arms into a water still so hot it makes her hiss, to wrap them firmly around her lover’s midriff.

“They had strung people up on the main square.” The words are almost lost among heartbreaking sobs. “Flayed and cut open so that their guts had spilled across the cobblestones.” The sliver of pity Missandei had felt dissipates. “There was so much blood.” 

Daenerys twists in her arms, burying her face in the crook of Missandei’s neck. No more words follow, only harsher sobs, until the khaleesi is empty of grief and slumped tiredly against her. 

Water has overflowed with the khaleesi’s movements, drenching Missandei’s tunic, but she doesn’t mind. Nor does she mind gently helping Daenerys out of the bathtub and into a linen towel that she firmly wraps around the woman’s frame. 

Daenerys skin is almost feverish from the water, the air around her shimmering with waves of heat. Missandei feels like she is standing next to an open furnace, and involuntarily presses closer, as the water wetting her own garments is fast becoming cold. 

She leads Daenerys to her bed, helping the Queen lay down, but when she grabs some pelts - meaning to cover her - her lover stops her. 

“Please don’t leave.” It the small voice of a lost child, and that’s exactly how she looks, almost diminished in the huge bed. Missandei knows that seeing Daenerys like this is a privilege and a burden all in one, because it’s the fragile part of herself the khaleesi can never show the outside world, lest she loses her power.

And so Missandei is at once lover and custodian of a secret that could mean Daenerys Targaryen’s undoing. She silently vows to hold it close to her heart, and her hand falls to the slender knife she always carries at her waist. 

She will end her own life to safeguard her Queen’s if she has to. 

But that is a concern for days to come and enemies who have yet to show their faces. Now Daenerys waits her answer, a look so hopeful on her face that she could demand anything of her and Missandei would gladly do it. 

“I won’t.” Missandei reassures, undoing the clasps holding her tunic close. The fabric, rendered heavy by the spilled water, falls to her feet without much effort on her part, and she steps to the bed, crawling onto it and laying on her side, finally next to her Queen. 

“Thank you.” Daenerys simply says, turning to face her. They just lay close for a while, losing themselves in the other’s gaze in a way that is precluded to them under every other circumstance. 

It is a sweet moment, but Missandei cannot help but be aware of the bitterness underneath - and she bristles at the unfairness of a life that brings them together like this only when one of them is hurting. 

Soon enough their bodies move to close the little distance left between them, legs and arms entwining like roots of ancient trees within a forest. Daenerys’ flesh is so hot against her own that Missandei doesn’t even think of grabbing covers, simply melting into her lover’s waiting arms with their first kiss. 

It’s hesitant yet caring, but the spark that came alight between them in Astapor takes only one swipe of the tongue to rekindle. 

Missandei takes the lead this time around, assured hands guiding Daenerys onto her back as the kiss deepens, her lover exhaling surprise into her mouth. 

She would never admit to it, but she has been studying, scouring the vast libraries of Astapor - that are now open to everyone - in search of every erotic text she could get her hands on. Some of the drawings she’s laid eyes on had made Missandei’s very bones burn, and some things she doesn’t think she’d ever have the nerve to try, but there are a few she thinks about whenever the need to relieve herself arises. 

And each time she touches her own wet core, she cannot help but imagine it is Daenerys’ fingers coaxing her to climax. 

Missandei breaks away from the kiss, breathless and sweaty, but when Daenerys tries to flip them over she shakes her head and pushes her back down. 

“Let me.” She whispers, the darkening of her lover’s eyes all the assent she needs to move her mouth lower. First she scatters kisses along the sweep of Daenerys’ collarbone, her skin tasting faintly of lavender as she flicks her tongue across her lover’s shoulder. 

Under her Daenerys shudders pleasantly, hands moving to Missandeis hips, her legs falling apart in silent welcome. It’s an invitation she accepts gladly, slotting herself between the khaleesi’s legs and grinding up instinctually, their mounds touching just enough to send tongues of fire up to sear their spines.

Her mouth traces patterns on Daenerys’ skin that burn equally bright, or perhaps it’s the unfathomable heat that rolls of her lover in waves. But Missandei will gladly burn alive for this, the intimacy they are sharing forever branded in her bones. 

She kisses her way across the small hills of Daenerys’ breasts, working her way down methodically towards her ultimate goal. She maps her lover’s skin with mouth and fingertips, Daenerys’ hands carding through her curls first softly and then with growing insistence. 

There is one image Missandei has found etched onto a crumbling length of parchment that she remembers clearer than the rest - of a woman tasting another. 

And she has been wondering what her khaleesi would taste like since. 

She stops inches from her goal, eliciting a whimper. 

Uncertainty makes her hesitate - she’s never done something of the like, their first time together guided entirely by Daenerys - and she is afraid of disappointing.

But her lover’s hands cup her cheeks gently, forcing her to raise her head and meet a gaze that devours her whole. 

Daenerys nods once and her hands push Missandei’s head back down - tenderly  so. She allows herself to be guided, her mouth naturally seeking the droplets of arousal coating her lover’s sex.

The khaleesi tastes as salty as the seas Missandei remembers from her youth, their waters so clear it was possible to see all the way to the bottom. 

Missandei wishes she could show Daenerys the place of her birth, but she is aware it is no more than wishful thinking. Still, she will take what she can have, with open mouth and eager tongue. 

She kisses along Daenerys’ glistening folds, tongue darting in and out, exploring her lover’s core much like it did the rest of her body. 

The khaleesi arches, one hand fisting her hair almost roughly, the other scrabbling at the covers they’ve discarded until she finds some sort of purchase. 

Her hips buck with every touch of Missandei’s tongue, and they naturally fall into an increasingly fast rhythm which falters the moment Missandei’s lips latch onto Daenerys’ hardened clit.

She sucks the quivering bud greedily, alternating harsh sucking motions with gentler passes of her tongue, mouth falling open to gather each gush of arousal Daenerys gifts her with. 

The only sign she has of Daenerys’ undoing is a clenching of muscles as her thighs involuntarily clamp down to trap her head. It’s followed by a hoarse scream that gets suffocated with a pillow before it truly has a chance to take flight. 

Missandei keeps lapping at her lover’s dripping sex, much slower now as she helps Daenerys ride out her release. The khaleesi’s hips jerk and she smears herself across Missandei’s chin, her nose, her cheeks, until all that she can smell is the scent of the open sea.

It lasts only minutes, but Missandei has the impression that her Queen will never stop shaking, then strong hands pull her up into waiting arms. They lay together, and she buries her face in the crook of Daenerys’ neck, so that her lover won’t see the grimace that twists her lips as she prays sunrise will never come. 

It does hours later, filtering sunlight causing her to wake with a startled gasp. The bed is empty and she sits up hurriedly, chest heaving in panic, before she catches sight of Daenerys. 

Her Queen sits at a table, absentmindedly picking at the food Missandei had brought, eyes drawn to the tent’s side as if she could see through the oiled cloth. 

Her mask is back in place, the aura of command almost tangible as it presses against Missandei’s skin, but the moment they look at each other the khaleesi’s gaze softens and she mouths a silent  _ thank you _ .

Missandei returns the smile before she scrambles out of bed, gathering herself and redressing. The sun is rising fast and she will need to be gone before the rest of the camp wakes to see her leave the Queen’s tent. 

She passes by the chair Daenerys occupies, intent on bowing her way out. The khaleesi takes her hand holding her back, their fingers entwining of their own accord as they share one last smile tinged with sadness.

“Send for the other advisors, Missandei.” The hard look is back in the khaleesi’s eyes, “Mereen awaits.”

  
  


**Author's Note:**

> [follow me on TUMBLR for more stories and exclusive content](https://kendrene.tumblr.com/)


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